The End.

           Olliemovedfast,thepistolinhisrighthand.BeforeBillyandIweremorethanoutthedoorhewasatmyScout,aninsubstantialOllie,likeaghostinatelevisionmovie.Heopenedthedriver’sdoor.Thenthebackdoor.Thensomethingcameoutofthemistandcuthimnearlyinhalf.

           Inevergotagoodlookatit,andforthatIthinkI’mgrateful.Itappearedtobered,theangrycolorofacookedlobster.Ithadclaws.Itwasmakingalowgruntingsound,notmuchdifferentfromthesoundwehadheardafterNortonandhislittlebandofFlat-Eartherswentout.

           Olliegotoffoneshot,andthenthething’sclawsscissoredforwardandOllie’sbodyseemedtounhingeinaterribleglutofblood.Amanda’sgunfelloutofhishand,struckthepavement,anddischarged.Icaughtanightmareglimpseofhugeblacklusterlesseyes,thesizeofgianthandfulsofseagrapes,andthenthethinglurchedbackintothemistwithwhatremainedofOllieWeeksinitsgrip.Along,multisegmentedscorpion’sbodydraggedharshlyonthepaving.

           Therewasaninstantofchoices.Maybetherealwaysis,nomatterhowshort.HalfofmewantedtorunbackintothemarketwithBillyhuggedtomychest.TheotherhalfwasracingfortheScout,throwingBillyinside,lungingafterhim.ThenAmandascreamed.Itwasahigh,risingsoundthatseemedtospiralupandupuntilitwasnearlyultrasonic.Billycringedagainstme,digginghisfaceagainstmychest.

           OneofthespidershadHattieTurman.Itwasbig.Ithadknockedherdown.